- Chapter 1 - Deprivation -

It was never considered odd that crying just wasn't something Jak did. It was a sign of weakness in this world, and he wasn't known to show it. Yet, he never cried. Instead, he took out any reasons through other means. Unfortunately, the gun course runs out of targets or wandering bands of marauders get the hint, and even the local bars begin to refuse him at one point. Luckily for the latter, they had just stopped taking payment from the brooding blonde instead of being forced to kick him out before his liver broke up with him.

Even as the bars stopped themselves from becoming another target to that ever-growing list of enemies, it was safe to say what happened after. Anyone was considered unfortunate if they found themselves at the end of that gun, especially during another fruitless attempt at repressing bottled up emotions. Even that wince from Daxter when an additional bullet would crack into a corpse wasn't enough. It was always for 'good measure,' he'd say, with Haven Forest never looking bloodier than when he confronted his feelings on Sig becoming a meal for a metal head.

There just weren't ever enough enemies to release his pent-up feelings. Not this time.

He lost his father. His real father. Not the one that his uncle stuttered out about how he, too, was a great man, but the one that truly was. The one that had barely even knew him before giving up his life for the son he never knew. The feeling inside had sunken low now that Jak knew Damas had given up everything out of respect.

Even when ebony claws sunk into flesh, ripping apart marauders as if they were little more than paper cutouts, Damas was proud. It always grew in the form of a smile, a discussion of wise words, or a lecture of advice. The king's newfound excitement wasn't from the pride of having a strong warrior with the abilities of Jak at his side, but rather that it came from a standing symbol of survival far greater than the wasteland could offer.

The second time in the arena he decided to reward them with a show. The crowd fell into an uproar of animation as they watched the utter decimation before them. Marauders, once standing tall in the face of such prying eyes, now laid mangled, slashed open, and torn apart in view for speculation. The cheering from the onlookers wouldn't stop, even as Jak approached their king nestled in a fury of reds. They were just as proud of him as Damas was and for the first time, blood didn't bother Jak. Daxter did complain that some got on him, but that didn't matter. The wastelanders saw through it all. They didn't see a freak, but a fellow wastelander that survived the plight of the world and came out on top.

It never became more obvious once Daxter began chatting on about how much they were admired here, running on tangents about how he wouldn't be surprised to see fliers amuck praising them. Imagining banners exulting their new wastelander who managed to turn an army of marauders into a pile in seconds, in truth, wouldn't be a new sight. There always were fliers, though Jak knew most proclaimed him to be what everyone thought: a monster. Or a murderer. Or worse...

Jak was never seen as the boy from Sandover who lost it all to save them. And now, when papers fluttered against a wall, it bothered him because he knew they weren't all the Baron's propaganda of the Underground.

To not be treated with disgust or fear for existing was an old feeling turned new. He could feel relaxed parading the streets of Spargus to the palace tower or the buggy ring for his next assignment. There was no fear twisting inside and expulsing itself in the form of worry that others saw the beast in teen's clothing. Or the sense of dread that someone, anyone, would alert others that there was blood on his hands. It was just something Haven branded into him.

And yet, as simple as it was, a passing nod made Jak feel wanted. It made him feel human, even. For once, he wasn't seen as some weapon or monster but as a boy who fought and won against the odds. That sense of belonging returned from the days of Sandover, which he consequently believed that he owed Damas and the city more than just his gratitude and gun for accomplishing what seemed more than impossible.

He was given a home. It was something Haven refused to offer. Of course, Daxter was always with him, but the Naughty Ottsel's second floor was not exactly home worthy.

There was no doubt that, from then on, Jak would do anything for Damas and the city. And he had. He heeded every wise word, fulfilled the many requests and missions without putting in a second thought, and risked his life to prove himself worthy. Much to Daxter's fear, it had reached a point to where if Damas asked Jak to shoot himself in the foot, then the gun would have fired before there was even an explanation. He never wanted to think about what the blonde would do if the king told him to "break a leg."

However, Social situations, much like that one and the one now, were never handled well on part of Jak only being able to voice his opinions for several years. Most found blame in retaliation he would receive from something other than a nasally voice, which never did bode well when that voice of reason came back. Saying that sarcasm went over his head, in which Daxter originated Jak diving into details he thought were there. He never did learn how to properly display emotions through words, but that never bothered the ottsel who easily interpreted the facial expressions the blonde heavily relied on.

Unfortunately, that made the grieving process worse. No one ever learned that Jak was the son of the King of Spargus. None learned how badly Damas' death could have affected him.

Jak hadn't gone punching out his emotions this time. He knew well enough that Daxter caught on to it, but wearing your heart on your sleeve was something he never did or liked to talk about. The only thing that shown through was a tough, pensive look as thoughts ran maliciously through his head. The belief that things could have been different if he confronted the truth earlier was a thought that only he could understand.

Walking to his cot in dead silence, Jak dwelled on that thought. Spargus became a city that was entrapped in both mourning and celebration, a macabre revelation that the Precursors' wished to be treated as gods before abandoning the world again.

He ignored the passing wastelanders who sympathized with the one who lost so much. This time, the nods and smiles didn't mean anything. They tried to tell him that he wasn't the reason their king died. That his father's sacrifice wasn't his fault.

He didn't care.

It was late, and Jak had spent most of the day wandering aimlessly through the palace, rummaging through Damas' old possessions. Sig was Spargus' new king, and as nothing was wasted in this city, it was customary for the new ruler to be gifted what the last owned. The tall wastelander never did like to see the teen depressed and apparently thought that maybe this would bring Jak some closure.

Save for what remained from being Haven's exalted heir of Mar, Damas owned little to his name. A torn banner sat lifelessly as small trinkets that were emblazoned with the seal of Mar laid bare in a stone chest. The dust that covered them etched the thought-to-be-dead lineage in the now empty halls of the Spargan palace. Gifts from other wastelanders, and now they were memories of the past left to haunt him, mocking such a strong name that was exiled from the city it made. Jak, too, was thrown and dragged through the dust as these relics had. Damas always seemed the man of deserved power, but the days of Mar were always very much behind him.

Despite Sig's good-hearted intentions of helping, it only gave Jak more to digest. There sat the throne, once seating a man worthy of it, admonished by its emptiness. Jak could only give a half smile, replaying what memories he had of Damas as the trinkets were taken away. What good memories he had.

"You ok, big guy?" Daxter asked, shutting the cheap wooden door behind him. He noticed that Jak had been still and lethargic ever since they announced Damas' death to Spargus. Their savior, standing in the corner quietly as Sig gave an emotional speech on how Damas died honorably fighting for a fellow wastelander, was not something the Ottsel was fine with. He had grown quieter and tense at every mention of the name. Daxter could only compare it to himself seeing Jak die, but knowing him he would have challenged the grim reaper and won.

Tearing off his goggles, Jak mumbled something. He fumbled with them uncomfortably before placing them down on the stand closest to him. It was the same act he went through when anything bothered him. It wasn't that he didn't want to talk to Daxter about, Precursors know he does, but there was no point in stressing themselves out more by complicating things.

"Tired? You and me both," Daxter piped into the nonexistent conversation. The ottsel paced the room, pushing the curtain from the back window to allow moonlight to partially illuminate the dusty floor. He jumped to the bed and stretched out next to Jak, who was now pulling at leather boot straps. "Just imagine when everyone finds out I'm a Precursor. The Spooky Kabuki show is gonna flip!"

A light chuckle escaped the blonde's lips.

Daxter grinned at the win, standing up with hands on his hips. "I'll have 'em begging for their god's forgiveness. Have a few statues erected in my honor, and maybe use that Precursor crap they got stashed away to rule the world." Nudging Jak's thigh, he continued, "y'know, being my sidekick and all, I'll letcha have special privileges."

A large thump as two heavy boots dropped down the side of the bed let the moment go to rack and ruin. Daxter's contiguous dream of power wasn't enough to get Jak out of his funk.

"Dax?"

He knew he was right in how it never would be enough to get Jak's mind off Damas, but it never hurt to get him to laugh at the smallest of jokes. Especially now. He quickly moved to the bracer, fumbling with its straps. "Need help getting ya armor off?"

Too removed in thought to process anything that rang with the nasally voice, Jak didn't say anything. Daxter could only watch as the two long ears lowered, pushing down beneath his hair to rest. He didn't even know what question would stumble out, though the ottsel knew the nature of it and could guess, as could anyone.

"Do you…" Jak mumbled slowly, dourly turning to glimpse down as the left arm-guard came off. "…think he's dead?"

Not knowing how to respond, Daxter stood silently. Looking at the facts, there was the mention of how the Freedom League never found Damas' body. Even the Precursors were puzzled about what happened. If almighty beings and guards who were dumb enough to check every crack and crevice for a towering man couldn't find him, then who could? Damas was a king known for survival, but if he was still alive now he won't be when they find him. Especially after all that...

It wasn't to say Daxter disliked Damas, but he never idolized him like Jak did. Now that he knew Damas was Jak's father, his real father, and that it made his best friend happy, he supposed he could tolerate Damas' speeches on the grandeur of battle. Anyways, a compliment from his kingliness was enough to fuel Jak for a week, which sure did take the strain off of his good ol' book of comedy gold.

Unwittingly deadpanning, Daxter made the situation worse. "He is Damas."

Blue eyes filled with anguish stared at him, ears tilted farther back beyond his hair. Jak's mouth tilted open, expecting clarification for whatever kind of answer that was.

"What I'm trying to say is, he's Damas," Daxter reiterated, scratching his neck. "Y'know, too stubborn to let a buggy take him out."

As Jak shifted away, Daxter hit his head, literally and figuratively. A buggy of that size, any size for that matter, would have killed anyone if it fell on them. Hell, if it fell on Jak instead they all knew how the story would have ended. Not happily ever after, even if Damas made it just 'ever after.'

Picking himself up off the bed, Jak sighed and grabbed the bracer that had come off. Daxter watched as the other was pulled down. The scarred hand reached around to pull down his shoulder guard straps, placing them on the small table next to his goggles. The greaves soon unbuckled and followed suit.

Daxter hesitated to say anything else. If Jak thought Damas was somehow alive, and that someone would find him by tomorrow with the increase in lookout groups, then maybe everything was going to be alright. He somewhat had gotten the mood back into the realm of positive thinking. And if Jak thought Damas was alive, who was dumb enough to say otherwise?

"You know…"

"Huh?" Daxter stood up on the bed again, only to hear a slight chuckle as Jak held up the chest plate.

"…He did give it to his son."

"You're not getting all teary-eyed on me, right?" Daxter said, chiding himself the moment it slipped. "Not that there's anything wrong with that! Sig's a manly man, much like ourselves over here, and my sweetie-kins slipped to me that he's not much of a newbie when it comes to crying or talking about his feelings. That poopsy-bear ain't the only thing the big lug's hiding. 'Sides, I ain't one to complain if tears get on me 'cause we all know there's been worse."

Jak put down his armor with the rest, going further across the room to draw the curtains closed. Daxter's interceded moment where Jak could have talked about his emotions churned an uneasy feeling throughout him. Though, whether it was because he ruined a good moment by further talking or realized that Sig was out there somewhere planning on bruising a cherry was unclear.

"Cold out," Jak said flatly.

"Yeah, well you ain't getting any warmer standing there." The ottsel patted the hard bed next to him.

Jak smirked at the remark. It was the same smirk he always gave when he lied to himself. He sat down on what many would consider a bed as hard as stone, pulling himself farther in. He rubbed the small lumps starting on his arms, pressing as the goosebumps began to go away. He was thinking too hard about it and Daxter was right. After all, Damas wasn't one to die in such a way. He wouldn't let that kill him, and a body not being found could only solidify that.

As Jak laid down, Daxter had noticed the growing thrush of bumps. He had innocuously thrown the worn blanket over the both of them in the guise of him being 'cold' before wrapping up between the blonde's stomach and arm. "First things first, Jak. Them rings under those baby blues are putting the monk's makeup department to shame. We'll go right out to Haven and find him before ya know it."

"Yeah." He'd have interjected if the slight snoring hadn't shot off immediately as that sentence ended. He found out why they couldn't leave tonight as neither of them had really gotten any sleep in the past week. But if they didn't leave now there was always the chance that…

No. Damas was alive. He had to be.

Darkness was always a time to think, and yet staying awake thinking about the man he called father was worse than any nightmares he would find in his sleep. No matter what happened in them, Jak knew he would wake up to that little orange body in reach, and the slight kicking as his fingers ran reassuringly through the fur. They were never going to get him again now that there were people who would be by his side through it all.

Jak ran his hands through his hair as he contemplated through the unnerving questions that mired his thoughts. What would he do if Damas lived? How would he tell him? Would he believe it? And what if he knew that Damas was his father back then? Would it all have panned out the same in the end?

If only he put together every link sooner. Only a true heir is deemed worthy to open the Tomb of Mar, and his younger self had done just that. Damas announced he was the usurped king of Haven, his son stolen before his exile. Even Kor, though not the most trustworthy, admitted it.

It must have been some Precursian curse to see how ironic it was that he never thought about his father until the moment he lost him. Samos was the only father figure he ever had, and that was a stretch. His uncle was never around as a mentor, only retelling stories of journeys to foreign jungles and deserts before abruptly leaving again. Sig did teach him veritable skills, but how to kill before being killed was not the same as learning how to catch.

Jak remembered that he did inevitably learn how to catch, though a ball hitting a wumpbee's nest in the process certainly prepared him for Sig's future teachings on not being the fastest, but being faster than someone else. Thankfully, the swelling cut down after a week, and so did Daxter's teasing.

Skills were always easy to learn, most through wise guidance or his (Daxter's) mistakes. There wasn't a reason to look up to others, except on occasion when there was no doubt about them being trustworthy. Unfortunately, that list seemed to get shorter as the years passed, while Jak learned to use others as they used him, expecting the worst in every interaction.

An hour of restlessness passed. Jak knew his mind was too active to sleep. Whenever his eyes closed, he frantically began putting together what could have happened, and what he thought would happen next. Not even the comforting hum of Daxter's nasally breathing was enough to calm him now.

There was one other thing that could.

The communicator was the only thing he kept on him now. It was cold, but that never meant anything. The red light was like a beacon of hope, praying to whatever gods there was that maybe, just maybe, it would turn green. It was a funny thought to Jak, praying that he'd sacrifice anything just to have that green light go off once again. He'd even give up the goatee, even if it grew on him more than anything else.

Bzeeeeeep. He brushed his arm against the orange fur as he held it to his ear. 'Jak, is that you? It's Ashelin. I need you to come to Haven as soon as possible. We... we found your father. He's alive."

It was a possibility. Daxter would find it silly, another thing to tease him about, if he had found out about the vivid imagination and the array of voices. In the prison, it was the only thing keeping the hope of rescue alive, and reassurance didn't end now.

"Jak, it's Torn. Mind sharing why the late king of the city walked in demanding to know where his son is?"

Torn's voice wasn't reassuring.

"You up, chili pepper? Got a signal blaring in from Haven. Let's get ready to roll."

His Sig impression was bad enough to get him to send out a small chuckle. It was a meager ray of hope, these voices, but nothing was ludicrous when it was to calm nerves.

"Ludicrous?"

Jak's eyes opened wide at the answer. He looked next to him, gazing at the sleeping ottsel. Dax?

"Nonsense. Many of the best actions are guided by such voices." The battle-hardened voice rang. "They have guided me more than I can admit to count."

"They guided you..?"

"the day of your arrival in Spargus was your mother's. The moment I risked my life, your's."

"You heard my voice?" Jak thought.

He was returned with a low laugh. "Indeed, I did. As odd as it may seem, I was asking myself the very question you are now."

"The same question?"

"Long ago, I would have found myself where you are... son," The gruff voice became more silent, drifting away as it had years ago. "Would you risk everything for those that did the same for you...?"

The voice dissipated into the chirping of the desert crickbeetles.

Jak laid there, eyes open staring at the darkened ceiling. The voices came when there were no shackles. No reds drifting too and from his vision.

He shifted his head, inspecting the sleeping ottsel that found itself tightly wrapped around the exposed moved it slightly from its grasp, lightly wiggling Daxter off. The grip only became tighter with some mumbling as he replaced the arm with a wadded piece of bedding.

Gritting his teeth while inspecting the room, Jak rationalized that putting armor on would cause too much of a disturbance. He slipped silently off the bed next to his boots and morph gun which, thankfully, could be frisked without too much noise. The occasional glance reassured him that Daxter was sleeping, taking a mental note that he'd have to wait for tomorrow for his verbal execution for deciding to go alone.

As the door propped open, cold air swelled into his lungs.

He was really going through with this.

It was still dark when he reached Haven, giving an air of criminality as if he was escaping something more dangerous than an angry ottsel. Jak gave the driver of the air train an apologetic smirk as the morph gun returned to its holster. Not only did fear make shuttles go miraculously faster, it also convinced them to not log this trip.

Main Town's ruins were silent. Corpses of metal heads were gone and death bot remains were piled away, forming jutting corners. The rubble, however, was finally cleaned up by the Freedom League creating a clear passageway around the block, something Jak snorted at. Torn actually got them to do good for once.

Admiring his past work, he passed the debris of generators while riding to the catacomb's entrance. He didn't care where they came from, but was glad they were there. He enjoyed the time with Damas, and the realization of how befitting the Slam Dozer was of Damas: hard-headed and could survive anything.

The two seated zoomer was easily hidden behind the Slam Dozer's frame, though there was no particular reason for doing so. Sig hadn't scheduled its pick-up for re-purposing until after the Precursors left, and the new lord of Spargus did grant him the right to use it after its recovery, seeing as the Gila Stomper was enough. Jak hoped it wouldn't come to that, and that it would return to Damas' possession as soon as he found him.

He turned around the Slam Dozer, pausing as he finished.

Damas was gone.

Was Damas...?

He searched the vehicle, opening a small compartment on the top of the flipped over buggy. A large amulet on a chain swung as it became caught, its red beacon sprying out from the darkness. Of course Damas wouldn't need this. He already had one on him.

Fumbling with the amulet, Jak rehearsed a newly formed plan about finding Damas and using the war amulet to contact Sig as soon as possible, though them riding out on a zoomer was better sounding as it meant Damas was awake. It was now his last resort if the mission was successful, or if there was a bod-

From what he could see, there was no blood on the ground, nor on the Slam Dozer. Jak couldn't remember if there was any before on account of everything that happened. If there was, then there was none now.

Dingy moonlight illuminated drag marks, creating a clear lane throughout the rubble. Someone had tried to hide them by the small rocks and gravel thrown around the bleated, exposed earth from the cracked pavement. A poor attempt at covering them up, but he could discern that the tracks ended near a fallen spire several meters away.

Walking slowly, Jak searched for any sign that whatever was dragged was alive. Large, crimson drops had nearly dried on small bricks winding down his path to a large crevice that formed between fallen spires and crumbled wall sections.

More drops, but smaller and relatively fresh. Light shone on the red surface, indicating a lack of smearing. Jak's heart skipped a beat. It must have been human, as he had never known anything else in Haven to bleed red. That meant that...

Damas hadn't died in the crash.

Jak obliviously stepped towards the spire, recounting everything he would say to Damas and how he would explain everything to him. The world zoned out once there was nothing else to think of except that he would turn the corner, duck under the ruinous wall, and find Damas, alive. His father was alive.

Reality snapped back as a sudden, cacophonous clack shot out.

A beam of red pierced through an unarmored thigh. Adrenaline pumping, Jak tumbled, covering himself from attacks behind a short wall brim. Another shot cracked out, leaving a black singe on the pavement. They expected him to act on instinct.

He cursed to himself as he looked down at his open wound. Daxter wouldn't like seeing another stained pair of pants. Jak ripped off his scarf, tying it around the gash as blood began to seep from his deep wound. He should have refilled on white eco before leaving, but at least it wasn't too painful.

Another shot rang, trying to lure him out.

Reaching for his war amulet, he pulled it out from his bloodied pocket and glared down. He swore to himself again while grabbing at the section that had jammed down its center. It must have been thrown ajar during the blast as if this wasn't already going great, there went his last resort.

His eyes began to shuffle the area. They already shot left twice so that meant to go right? He couldn't run on account of his leg, and there was no doubt that he'd be plucked off immediately If he did. There was enough strength left in his other leg to jump. Jump and shoot, then continue the mission.

A fourth raucous shot fired much closer this time, ricocheting off a rock to the right of him. Jak pulled the morph gun from its straps, setting it to blaster right before a fifth shot pierced Haven's reticence.

Jak focused on the trigger, fingers grasping around it before jumping to meet whoever decided to interrupt. Whoever…?

The staff laid in front of him, aimed. The crown of thorns that laid bare greeted him as the grip on the trigger loosened. "Damas…?"

There was no time before the sixth and final shot jarred in his ears. He fell with soft, exposed ground pulling everything close in its bitter embrace.

A shock tore through his body as he landed. Jak stared upwards, observing his murky surroundings from his dimly lit position. It was cold, and he must have forgotten to close the window. Daxter must have fallen out of bed with him and landed under his head, poor guy. Jak tried to move, but his body rationalized that this was a comfortable enough place to stay with seemingly no amount of arguing changing its mind to get up.

Apparently falling and ending up as a pillow would not wake Daxter, and Jak thought he was a heavy sleeper. He couldn't speak out, only choking on his own words when trying to call for him to wake up. His muscles relaxed and began to sag. Maybe getting back to bed could wait after all. Daxter was so warm.

He shifted his head as he heard the quiet thumps in the distance. Footsteps? They sounded familiar, but whether it was an illusion was beyond him. These weren't the voices, and maybe Daxter would know what to do about hearing things. Jak gave a hushed attempt at a chuckle, noting how Daxter always could talk sense back into him. He could also use the help in getting back to bed.

Jak reached to his shoulder to get Daxter's attention. His hand lightly pressed down, settling on a wet, tousled surface. Must have had a nightmare with Daxter being the unwanted recipient of midnight perspiration. He'd treat him tomorrow with a trip to that island he loved for bathing.

A violent blur formed. Jak squinted, groggily studying the mess of color before him. Whites and grays mixed together, but that expression of horror didn't fit. It did look like him, but he shouldn't be here. They all said Damas was dead. He shouldn't be in his room. Jak didn't remember having anything to drink, but even then the voices weren't this bad.

No, this was too real. Damas must have been here for that word, but what was it? An attempt at an open smile breached his face as he quaveringly reached up to Damas. Fingers twitched, slowly falling back down.

Too far away.

Daxter must have been awake now, moving quickly to catch it. Warmth spread out from his stomach, pooling at where that soft body was now. His chest tightened and dropped as if a weight crashed down upon it.

The face came close, exemplifying a crown of thorns and silver hair in the bright darkness. The large gun staff fell, crashing down inaudibly with its surroundings. Damas was close now, reachable even. There was something he needed to tell him.

Jak extended his arm to Damas, faltering against the armor-clad shoulder. The king stared, hastily mouthing words while pulling Jak's arm down. His hands were dyed a deep, discernible red.

Blood?

Damas returned to Jak's chest, feeling that sudden weight rush down upon him. Daxter was still resting behind his head then, and as reassuring as it was, he'd be alright, though maybe annoyed at being a headrest. Did that mean Damas was bleeding?

He examined his king, only to see nothing on him. Jak gave a breathless sigh, sucking back the air. He must have come for something else. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't make it out.

That word.

Sound stilled as that ringing faded to a delicate silence, pierced only by Jak's own croaking voice. Violet eyes fell as that wave of color overcame him, flustering around him as all senses diminished in chaotic freedom. A vivid blue light drowning in a deep sea of lavender, stifling out that word before it extinguished.

"...Father."

Author's Note- Chapter 1! Always fun to start a multi-chapter fanfiction with the main character dying. The duo is so sleep deprived that Jak starts to hear voices again, except one of them seems so real. I guess that's enough for the touch back on hallucinations he would have heard in the prison since they kept him sane with hope. But who knows! I certainly don't.

(This fan-fiction is multi-chapter and is an AU based on the events around the end of Jak III that I've wanted to do for a really long time. I don't know how long this will be, but I do have a specific direction and I guess what could be considered arcs, so until those are done I'll be typing.

There will also be the inclusion of several minor, but probably controversial, head-canons that you may not agree with. No, it isn't anything serious, just what I think could have happened based on plot holes I probably imagined during some fever dream. There are some upcoming ones, and I would just like to warn you now that they surround the DWP, nobility of Haven, uses of precursor tech, and uses of dark eco (if you know where I'm getting at based on the title *wink* no spoilers *wink*) If they come up and need explaining, they'll be in the Author's Note sections, so you can just skip over them if you're just here for the story.

Please note that some of you may have seen this before under a different name as I'm already a few chapters in, but I was given some really good advice and am completely rewriting parts and polishing it up. If you read them before, I hope you notice a difference. There will also maybe be chapter updates on my profile page?)

Disclaimer - I do not own any of these characters. All characters are owned by Sony Corporation and were created by NaughtyDog, LLC.